


The Next Sunrise

by Thia (Jennaria)



Series: All Souls [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Hobbit Culture & Customs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-26
Updated: 2004-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:16:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24427129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennaria/pseuds/Thia
Summary: Some ghosts don't melt away because the sun has risen. And Sam's not the only one with issues.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Series: All Souls [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1763998
Kudos: 3





	The Next Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> Another belated (...very belated, for AO3) zine repost. This one owes vast amounts to caraloup, who insisted that a particular scene could be better and wouldn’t leave me alone until it was, then published it in 'Inside A Song'.

Frodo woke up alone. He let his eyes drift open long enough to consider the angle of the sunlight through that awful window. Mid-morning, say nine o'clock. That explained the cool sheets under his inquiring hand: Sam never rose later than six. So much for Frodo's plans of dozing the morning away, curled around his Sam, waking to slow lazy kisses and the taste of Sam on his lips.

But Sam wasn't in bed to be tasted, and the more Frodo thought about that, the less inclined he felt to simply go back to sleep. He turned his head, blinking against the morning sunlight, and discovered Sam over on the far side of the room. Sam was kneeling over something, his pack perhaps, dressed in plain linen and wool and his favorite gray vest. Frodo closed his eyes on a pang to his pride. He'd been the one to pick out the clothes left for Sam the night before, and they'd _suited_ Sam perfectly. The close-fitted green brocade made Sam look like a forest spirit, something earthy come out of the woods to ravish hobbit women, or _be_ ravished by hobbit men.

He was being a fool, Frodo told himself sharply. He opened his eyes again, and forced himself to look away from the sun on Sam’s hair this time. Sam's borrowed finery, and Frodo's own clothing from the night before, both lay neatly folded on a chest near the door. Frodo blinked, then smiled ruefully to himself. Sam had been up entirely too long if he'd had the time to tidy up the results of Frodo's carefully planned debauch. He rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow. "Good morning, Sam."

"Good morning, sir," Sam said, without turning around.

Entirely too long. "What time is it?"

"Time for breakfast." Sam finished with whatever he'd been doing, and rose to his feet, turning to face Frodo. His gaze flickered from Frodo's face, down to his bare chest, then to some point over Frodo's head, his face flushing a bit as he plowed on: "There was a knock at the door not five minutes ago."

Nine o'clock exactly, then. Frodo abandoned his half-formed notion of luring Sam back into bed with him: a proper loving would leave them both too tired to rise before nuncheon, and Frodo had things he must do this morning. "Past time to get up," he said wryly, and sat up, throwing back the covers after a quick, automatic glance out the window. No, no one outside. Only Sam to see him, and Sam watched him silently as Frodo crossed the room to his dresser and began to choose clothing for the day.

No sooner had he picked out a tunic than he found it whisked from his hands. He turned to find Sam holding it up, offering it for him to put his arms in. Sam's cheeks were still flushed, his eyes wide and dark, but the tunic didn't tremble in his hands. Frodo accepted the help, a bit puzzled. "Sam, I _can_ dress myself."

"I know." Sam came around, careful fingers fastening each button up the front of Frodo's tunic.

Frodo smiled involuntarily. "Are you going to do this for my trousers as well?"

"It's a thought," Sam said gravely.

"Alas -- I'm not trusted with my own clothing!"

He'd meant it for a jest, but Sam said, "Not about trust." His voice held a bit of a sting, that gentled into the warmth of Sam's breath against Frodo's ear, the warmth of Sam's hands at Frodo's waist, fastening Frodo's trousers as threatened. "I like to do for you. It's no more than that."

That sweetness deserved a kiss. But Sam wouldn't allow it until Frodo had donned his waistcoat, and even then only a quick kiss, hardly more than the brush of his mouth against Frodo's and the warm wet touch of his tongue against Frodo's lips. Not for the first time, Frodo promised himself to break down those strict Gamgee notions of Proper Behavior. Sam kept himself under far too strict a control.

Consequently, on their way down to breakfast, Frodo took Sam's hand in his. Sam returned Frodo's squeeze and didn't protest the intimacy, even when Frodo kissed Sam's fingers as they entered the dining hall. Only a few hobbits were there to see it anyway -- one or two of the older folk who liked their lie-in of a morning but hadn't stayed up that late the night before, a scattering of children who had stayed up but didn't want to miss their morning of play, and of course Esme and Saradoc. Frodo wouldn't have sworn to Cousin Saradoc noticing anything other than the eggs and sausages piled on his plate: Saradoc looked as rumpled as though he'd fallen into bed without undressing, and not bothered to change when he woke up. But Esmeralda, grand in blue and green, hair neatly pinned up, shook her head and winked at Frodo. "Frodo Baggins, you haven't changed."

Frodo merely bowed, and took his seat, tugging one platter closer to see what was on it. He realized a moment too late that Sam _hadn't_ sat down as well, and looked up to find Sam looking at Esmeralda warily, and Esmeralda looking back with wide, innocent eyes.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Sam said. The words sounded stiff and clipped, Sam on his dignity, and Frodo bit his tongue hard to keep from protesting that Sam didn't _need_ to be all formal, not here, not in this company. "I wanted to apologize for taking off from the festivities like that. Without giving good night to you and your husband."

Saradoc looked up from his plate, eyebrows raised, and Esmeralda laughed aloud. "If you have no worse offense to confess, Master Gamgee, then I forgive you with all my heart." She patted Frodo's hand, still tensed on the edge of the food-platter. "If I were angry -- which I am not -- I would blame Master Baggins here. It's not the first time he's been responsible for guests leaving rather earlier than expected."

"We hadn't actually _invited_ the Sackville-Bagginses," Saradoc said unexpectedly.

"That's not to what I referred," Esmeralda said, a twinkle in her eye that made Frodo promise himself to keep Sam very, very far away from his kinswoman during this visit. "I can remember more than one Buckland maid whose head was turned by a smile from you, Frodo Baggins, and a youth or two as well."

"Esme!"

"Oh, hush. I won't tell the stories now." Esmeralda let go of Frodo's hand, and transferred her smile to Sam. "The point is, Frodo's distracted several hobbits I could name from their duties, and they had far less reason to be distracted than you. So no apologies are needed."

Frodo dared a glance up at Sam. He wasn't bright red any more, but he had an unsettlingly thoughtful look in those dark eyes. "As you will, ma'am," Sam said quietly, and sat down at last.

They didn't linger over breakfast. Not that breakfast wasn't worth the lingering -- toast and jam and griddle-cakes, two different kinds of sausage and three different dishes of eggs -- but Frodo's stomach twisted up when he thought about afterwards. He’d invited Sam for this, as much as he’d invited him for the festivities of the Eve, but now that the moment stared him in the face, he shivered and thought to second-guess himself. _Fool of a Baggins. You know better._

So, as they rose from the table, he took Sam’s hand and leaned close to say, “Will you come with me?” He kept his voice low as he might and still be heard. This was not a matter for Esmeralda’s ears.

“Of course, sir,” Sam said, equally quietly. “Where?”

Frodo opened his mouth to say _to the graveyard_ , but the words swelled in his throat, near to choking him. Not here, not even for Sam’s ears alone. “Come,” he said instead, and tugged Sam out of the room.

No neatly cobbled road led from Brandy Hall to the graveyard, only a worn path in the grass, without even a sign to mark it. Sam opened his mouth as if to say something as Frodo led him through the scattered trees, to a field that had once, long before Frodo’s memory, been clear and open. Sam closed his mouth as they rounded the hill and saw it. The Bucklebury graveyard faced the Old Forest across a small stream, the grave-poles rising in an odd, blunted sort of echo of the trees beyond the Hedge. Sam hesitated a moment before following Frodo in among them, as if he didn't quite trust the hobbit-high poles not to fall over, or reach out to trip them as if they _were_ trees in the Old Forest. Frodo stopped and waited, but did not turn around. The quiet of the dead pressed in on him, like a physical touch, isolating him even from Sam. He’d always come here alone before. Did Sam feel it? Did Sam – oh, this was pointless speculation!

After a moment, he felt Sam's touch against his arm, warm against the chill of the air. Frodo nodded sharply to say he understood, and continued on, picking his way through the poles. He could hear Sam's breathing steady behind him.

They stopped at last. Sam came up to stand beside Frodo, head tilted a bit as he studied the pole in front of them, and the runes spelling out two names on it. _Primula Baggins. Drogo Baggins._ Nothing else. There hadn't been time for an elaborate carving.

Frodo folded his arms across his chest. _That they may be remembered,_ the Recitation said. He used to try to remember everything-- the sound of his mother's laughter, the taste of his father's failed experiments with pudding recipes. Back then, the thought of his parents and the pain of their death spread through everything, like tea spilled on a tablecloth. Then Bilbo came -- and Sam.

Frodo closed his eyes, and bowed his head for a moment. _Goodbye, mother. Goodbye, father._ He opened his eyes and looked up again, over west toward the Brandywine and the Old Forest. _Good morning, Bilbo, wherever you are. I hope I'll see you again some day._

As for Sam --

He turned and looked at Sam for the first time since entering the graveyard. Sam met his gaze, head tilted slightly to one side. He took a step closer, not quite close enough for Frodo to reach out and touch him. “Frodo?”

"My – my parents.” Oh, that was a foolish thing to say, but Sam only waited and listened and looked at Frodo with clear dark eyes. “I come here every year. To pay my respects.” Every year except this one. This one, he’d had more complex intentions. He looked away, unable to meet that steady gaze. The graveyard’s silence lay on his heart, as though his memories were a weight even Sam’s presence could not lift. He ached with gray-edged disappointment. He’d thought – oh, he couldn’t say what he’d thought. A lad’s dreams of fireside tales, apparently, that didn’t stand up to the light of day and the cold breeze blowing from the water.

A touch to his hand made him look up again. Sam hesitated, hand out as if he didn’t quite dare touch Frodo again. Frodo met his gaze, the ache like a knife. _Please_ – please what? He couldn’t even force the word out through a throat suddenly tight and dry.

Then, before all the dead of Bucklebury, Sam stepped forward and kissed Frodo. Frodo stood stock-still for a moment in surprise - he hadn’t meant to ask for _this_ , if he’d meant to ask for anything, and in the usual way of things _he_ was far more like to kiss _Sam_ than _Sam_ to kiss _him_. But Sam’s mouth against his tasted of sweet warmth. Frodo leaned into the kiss and forgot about the chill in the air or who might see.

Sam stepped back first, color high. “Should we head back, sir?”

Frodo nodded, wordless, and only then discovered that Sam had tangled his fingers in Frodo’s curls. Sam blushed even harder, and worked himself free while Frodo bit his lip on inappropriate laughter.

Back at Brandy Hall, they ducked into the kitchen for second breakfast, fresh-baked apple turnovers. Sam dipped a mug into the pail of new milk sitting by the door, and handed it to Frodo so their fingers, sticky with apple juice and cinnamon, brushed against each other. Frodo accepted it with a smile, then had to look away again from the intensity of Sam's eyes. If he were not careful, Sam would sweep him away off his feet, and they'd spend the rest of this visit locked into Frodo's room, giving a lusty show to whoever cared to look through that blasted window.

No. The fire behind Sam’s dark eyes was not mere lust, but a love that humbled Frodo with its strength. He...he _understood_ Frodo. Frodo chewed a bit of turnover, and kept his own eyes firmly fixed on the kitchen fire. He bade Sam here to share...to share something. The ritual of All Souls, at least. Sam apparently saw far, far more, more even than Frodo meant to show.

“More milk, sir?”

“No, thank you.”

He must not stay here. Without touching him, without even looking at him, Sam roused Frodo’s pulse to a hasty, stumbling beat in throat and wrists, merely by standing next to him in a warm kitchen and calmly eating an apple turnover. When Saradoc popped in two minutes later in search of a turnover, Frodo accepted his offer of a tour of the Brandybuck stables with no more than a glance at Sam.

Two and a half hours of breeding programs and pony teeth later came a brush of fingers on Frodo's neck and a whisper in his ear that Mistress Esmeralda had served out nuncheon, and would he care to come eat while it was still warm? Frodo jumped, not so much out of startlement (although he hadn't noticed Sam approaching) as from the jagged fire that went through him at Sam's touch on his skin. So much for regaining control of himself by separation. He'd only made it worse.

After nuncheon, he tried the other extreme -- sitting next to Sam on a couch while politely listening to Aunt Asphodel's ramblings. To his dismay, this proved even more dangerous to his self-control. Sam never pushed things as recklessly as Frodo himself tended to do, but Frodo couldn't concentrate on what Asphodel was saying for waiting for Sam's next touch, a gentle rub through the blunting fabric of tunic and waistcoat, or a feather-light brush of fingers over bare skin. Where had Sam learned to tease like this? Frodo had never been _this_ bad, had he?

He finally escaped from his older relative: a glance ensured that Sam would follow. Back to the dubious privacy of his room. Very well: if Merry lay in wait outside Frodo's window, then he'd get an eyeful. But Frodo still waited until Sam had closed and locked the door before speaking. "I hadn't realized you were so bold."

"Not a matter of _bold_ , sir," Sam said, and the echo of his words from the morning made Frodo blink. Sam closed the distance between them, step by slow step. "Just of taking care."

"I think you're taking it too far." Frodo meant that to be light, joking, a poke to Sam's pride. But his voice wavered as he watched Sam come nearer, eyes dark and intent on him. When had gentle Sam learned to devour him with his gaze? _What have I taught you?_

"I don't think I've taken it far enough," Sam said. He raised his hands to Frodo's buttons, undoing them steadily, but didn't look away from Frodo's eyes. "You take care of _me_ every time we lie together. It's not right."

"Sam--" _I love you. I want to give you pleasure, I want to share that with you._ But before Frodo could shape the words with his suddenly clumsy tongue, Sam tugged waistcoat and tunic together down his arms, leaving Frodo bare from the waist up. Exposed. Frodo glanced nervously out the window: he could see at least one couple, walking next to the Brandywine.

"There's nothing to shame you," Sam said softly from behind him. Frodo felt a touch on his hair, stroking him as though he were a barnyard cat. "They could see more among the shadows at some midsummer fair."

"This...isn't midsummer." Frodo shivered: not from cold, or from exposure, but because Sam's touch stroked down off his hair, down the tender skin of his back, up to caress his ears. "Sam--"

"I trusted you last night," Sam said quietly. "Will you not trust me?"

It hurt to breathe for a moment. No – he hadn’t meant – oh, Sam, Sam... Frodo bit his lip hard on the glib impulse to say something like _do with me what you will._ At last he managed, “Yes.” _I do, please, Sam, I do!_

Sam didn’t hesitate. He undid Frodo's trousers, and tugged them off to be tossed aside with his other garments. Then he bent to exploring Frodo with mouth and hands. Frodo closed his eyes and put confused guilt and their involuntary audience out of his mind, letting a touch to his shoulder bring a sigh to his lips, a gentle bite to the hollow of his hip draw a moan, and the feel of Sam's lips closing on his nipple, a hum in the back of his throat. Oh, but he'd been too impatient before, not to have discovered this. Bringing Sam to arousal and completion gave him one sort of pleasure, a near-frightening headiness that _he_ could do this for Sam, but this was equally terrifyingly wonderful. Every touch and kiss wrapped his mind in a glorious sort of cloud, as if drunk on fine wine.

The touch of Sam's mouth _there_ made Frodo's eyes fly open again. Sam knelt between his legs, still fully clothed, and _tasting_ Frodo with curious licks and mouthings, as if it were some new recipe to be tested. Frodo tried to find the breath to say _Sam, no, you don't have to--_ but then Sam took him fully into his mouth, heat and wet and the delicate touch of Sam's tongue just _there_.

Frodo didn't know _what_ sort of noise he made then, nor did he care. Sam's hands closed on his hips to let him _move_ , in and out, as Sam suckled at him, drank him as if _he_ were the fine wine, and moaned himself as if the taste of Frodo on his tongue roused him to aching. Frodo's knees gave out as he lost control at last. Sam followed him down, swallowing quickly: Frodo shivered at the sight of the rapid flex of Sam's throat. Then Sam knelt up over him, undoing his own trousers with clumsy hands, and exposed his own arousal, damp and angry red. He spat on his fist and began working at it desperately.

_No – not alone, Sam, please._ Frodo reached up, forcing release-weak muscle to work again, and closed his own hand around Sam's. "Let me," he said softly, almost pleading.

Sam's eyes went wide, and he let go, allowing Frodo to tighten his grip and begin the rhythm he knew so well. "Frodo --" Name choked out. "I love you --"

_Good._ But that was not a thing for saying, not now. The dark possessiveness that welled up made him wary. To speak it aloud would frighten his beloved. Instead, he whispered longing and love words in return until Sam came apart in his hands, and collapsed down next to him.

When Frodo remembered to look out the window again, the courting couple was still down by the Brandywine, deep in each other's eyes. "You were right," he said idly. "Nobody looked."

"I'd worry my mind more over whether someone was at the door and _listening_ ," Sam said, opening his eyes again. "Else we're both in for teasing from your cousins."

Listening? Oh, dear. Let Merry not have thought of _that!_ "Their own fault for not going around to the window and getting a proper _view_ ," Frodo said, and had the satisfaction of seeing Sam go red with the attempt to stifle scandalized laughter. He bent and stole a quick kiss from Sam's reddened lips. "We should wash before we go down to supper, or else we will turn heads."

Sam shook his head, but sat up anyway. " _Did_ you turn the heads, the way Mistress Esmeralda said?"

"I never noticed," Frodo admitted truthfully. "I never tried until you."

Sam looked at him for a moment, then smiled. Frodo caught his breath. Mussed and debauched though both of them were, that smile could still tear Frodo's heart open and make him ache with how much he loved this hobbit. _Of course I trust you, my Sam_ \-- the admission like warm water over the hurt, a truth he hadn't ever thought about.

"Wash, sir," Sam said. "We've still your cousins to face."

Frodo laughed, and pulled his trousers on again, and led the way down the hall to the washroom.

-end-


End file.
